


Green-eyed Monster

by PenguinofProse



Series: Smutty Saturdays [11]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jealous Bellamy Blake, Jealousy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: In which Bellamy gets jealous on Sanctum.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: Smutty Saturdays [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930432
Comments: 32
Kudos: 221





	Green-eyed Monster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OnlyZouzou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyZouzou/gifts).



> Hello and welcome to Smutty Saturday! Huge thanks to Zou for the prompt and to Stormkpr for betaing. We're on Sanctum here early in S6. Happy reading!
> 
> Content note with spoilers at end.

Bellamy doesn't understand why the hell Madi is at this party.

It doesn't seem very consistent, he thinks. If Clarke is so damn paranoid about her child's safety – if she left him behind in Polis over a risky decision he thought was genuinely necessary – he doesn't understand why the hell she's willing to stand back now and have her daughter surrounded by alcohol and strangers.

But then again, what would he know? He did manage to make a real mess of his attempt to raise his sister.

Madi's at the drinks table now. No. That's too far. He seems to remember making a promise to himself that he would never interfere in the girl's life again, but he's not about to stand here and watch a twelve year old take a cup of strong punch from strangers.

He strides over there, frowning deeply.

"Madi. What are you doing here? You know you're too young to drink that."

To his surprise, she doesn't argue. She simply rolls her eyes, and holds the cup out towards him.

"Relax, Bellamy. I wasn't about to drink it. It's for you – I thought you looked like you could use a drink."

He swallows, frowns ever deeper. _You look like you could use a drink._ He didn't particularly need that little reminder of the past he shares with Madi's mother. He's been trying not to think too hard about Clarke, since she left him to die and all.

"Bellamy? Come on. Take the drink. I wanted to bring you a drink to say I've forgiven you for the flame, even if Clarke's still working on it."

He nods. He can't say no, when she puts it like that. And it feels pretty strange to take a cup of punch from a twelve year old, but at least they're standing right next to the table and he can sort of convince himself he's been overseeing the process as a responsible adult this whole time.

He takes the drink with a brief word of thanks and a long swallow. It's good punch – sweet but also slightly bitter.

Kind of like his relationship with Clarke, right now.

No. He can't be thinking like that. He can't -

"Madi. What the hell are you doing here?" Suddenly Clarke herself is on the scene, spitting fire. "You can't just run off like this, Madi. And to a _party_? It's not safe."

Madi adopts a contrite expression which is obviously an act. Clarke adopts a flustered and rather angry expression, eyes flickering between Madi and Bellamy as if wondering whether they might have conspired to endanger the child all over again.

"Sorry, Clarke. I just really wanted to get you to show up. I knew you'd follow me if I snuck in." Madi offers softly.

"Madi -"

"Have a drink." Madi interrupts her briskly, thrusting a cup of punch into her hand. "Look. Bellamy's having one. It's good to drink with friends, right?"

Bellamy nods stiffly. "It's good punch." He offers weakly.

Clarke seems to be ignoring him, more or less. She certainly seems to be ignoring the suggestion that they are friends. Her gaze is fixed on Madi as she takes a couple of calming sips of her drink, almost as if she's drinking for something to do rather than out of desire to try the punch.

At last, it seems Clarke is more in control of her breathing and her temper.

"You scared me there, Madi. But no harm done. Let's get you home."

Madi pouts. "But I wanted you to come to the party and have fun for a while."

 _Having fun yet, Princess_? No. He must stop this nonsense. Living in the past is doing him no good.

Meanwhile, Clarke's expression is softening. "How about I promise I'll come back to the party? I'll go out for a little while if it's so important to you, as long as I can see you safely home first."

Madi nods, evidently well-pleased. Mother and daughter walk straight out of the party.

Bellamy is left nursing a half-cup of punch and a rather sore heart.

He remembers the days when he _meant something_ to Clarke. He's sure he did. It wasn't an accident that she traded the promise of fifty spots in Arkadia for his life, or that she didn't shoot him in the Polis bunker. But now she seems determined to ignore his existence wherever possible. He wonders whether that's all because of Madi and the flame or whether there's more to it than that, too. Whether maybe those six years apart changed things more than he likes to admit, and maybe her finding Madi and him loving Echo have built further walls between them.

The Echo thing shouldn't matter, he thinks sourly. He broke up with her as soon as there was a suitable moment. He's not stupid – he knows it wouldn't be fair on anyone for him to date Echo in a world with Clarke still alive.

But it seems like it _does_ matter. There's something in the hurt way Clarke looks at him that reminds him he can't take it back, now. That however long they both might live, he will always be the guy who hooked up with his former enemy while Clarke was struggling for survival.

He tries to brush it off, swallows down more punch. He should go hang out with a friend – that would lift his mood. But his friends of choice in moments like this would be Monty and Harper, and they're both dead. It sucks. And he supposes he could take the opportunity to check in with Jordan, but Jordan is dancing with some Sanctum girl and clearly doesn't want to be separated from her. So maybe he could chat with Emori – he's close with her, these days. But she's just got back together with Murphy, so presumably she doesn't want to be interrupted.

He finishes up his punch, feeling rather lonely. Damn it. He knew that drinking today was a mistake. He knew it would bring out the loneliness he's been trying to smother since waking up without Monty and Harper, and with Clarke still half-hostile to him. Or maybe it's more than just the punch – maybe it's all these happy couples on the dance floor.

Because it strikes him that he's feeling lonely in a most _particular_ way. He's feeling lonely in the sense of craving a warm body in his arms, heated lips against his. He's feeling sorely in need of someone to take home tonight, preferably a beautiful blonde with a stunning chest and eyes that flash -

Well crap. He really should know better than to drink when he's missing Clarke, by now. But all the same, he doesn't usually get a reaction as strong as _this_. He doesn't usually feel weak at the knees and absolutely desperate to hold her, positively _hungry_ for her kisses.

At just that moment, she walks back into the party. He laughs a hollow laugh. Just his luck. Should he go over there and speak to her? He knows he won't get the physical closeness he's craving any time soon, but he might at least steer them back in the direction of genuine friendship, if he tries hard enough. But does he have the courage for that? Does he have the strength to put himself out there and risk being ignored yet again?

He hesitates a moment too long.

He's just starting to set out across the dance floor to her when he sees that handsome doctor intercept her. Damn him. Damn him and his lighthearted smile, his ostentatious happiness. Damn him for his innocence, and the way he looks at Clarke like she's some kind of fairytale princess.

She's so much more than that, and she deserves someone who knows it. She deserves someone like Bellamy, who has spent _centuries_ figuring that out.

She doesn't care, though. That's the message Bellamy gets as he watches her dance close up against the doctor, too interested, too quickly. She couldn't make it plainer that she doesn't care for Bellamy's pathetic loneliness. She's got options – that's what she seems to be telling him.

He hates watching them dance. Clarke seems to be going out of her way to touch as much of her new friend as possible, and Bellamy doesn't like it. He doesn't see how it can be necessary for her to run her hands down her partner's chest, or grab at his butt. That's a bit too far to be taking things in public, in his opinion.

But all the same, he cannot tear his eyes away.

It's when Clarke and her doctor start kissing that Bellamy finally loses his cool. _He_ wants to be kissing her, damn it. Or maybe he just wants to be kissing anyone, full stop. He can feel his desire running away with him now, is growing hard in his pants just from watching Clarke dance. This is madness. This is more than just one drink and a bit of party atmosphere, he fears.

This is too much.

He needs to act on it. He needs to distract himself, and stop standing here staring at what he cannot have. And it appears that he needs to find some other way to channel his sex drive, too, because that craving for human contact is now burning out of control.

His eyes flit around the room, panicked. He finds Echo. Thank goodness. She's always had a talent for saving him when he needs it the most. He heads over there, tries not to let his eyes linger on Clarke as he goes.

"Echo. Hey." He greets her with a hug that is rather more lingering than they have shared since the break up, finds that he is staring at her lips as he pulls away. Huh. That's odd. He hasn't found himself so attracted to Echo since his guilt at getting together with her while Clarke was surviving has surfaced, but right now, he's finding her -

"Bellamy. What the hell is wrong with you?" She asks briskly, as only she can. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He frowns. He knows he doesn't _want_ to look at her like that. He knows it's not fair to either of them, and that he was resolved to make a clean break of it.

He knows it, but he doesn't really _feel_ it, right now. He's just so damn lonely and horny and Echo is _right there._ And he knows they know how to make each other feel good – they had three years of practice, after all – so it's really tempting in this moment to give it another try.

Over Echo's shoulder, he can see Clarke still making out with that smarmy doctor. Ugh. He's so jealous it _hurts_ , like some kind of monster is trying to claw its way out of his chest.

Meanwhile, of course, Echo has been reading his silence. She's good at that – it's the spy in her. So while Bellamy is frowning deeply, and trying to remind himself he's not interested in taking Echo back to his bed, and trying to convince himself not to punch Clarke's dance partner, it seems she has reached a conclusion.

"You're jealous." She states mildly.

He nods, because _obviously_ he's jealous.

Echo sighs, audibly exasperated. "You're both as bad as each other. Just walk over there and tell her you miss her."

He growls deep in his throat. Partly because that sounds weak, and a little pathetic, and he's annoyed with Clarke for making such a mess of him. But largely because he's seriously struggling for self control, right now. He's absolutely desperate to get laid – it's as simple as that.

He tries to take some deep breaths, hating himself for his lack of control. He doesn't know what's come over him. Sure, he's always had a very healthy sex drive, and he used to enjoy a lot of hookups as a young guy. But he managed a steady and pretty calm relationship with Echo on the Ring, and he's managed to do nothing but stare at Clarke since they came back from space. So why on Earth is it suddenly so difficult to keep it in his pants?

"Go on, Bellamy." Echo urges him firmly. "You must know how she feels. He even looks a bit like you. And that show she's putting on? It's like she's just begging you to go over there and interrupt."

He shakes his head, growls a little more. He can't agree with that. Clarke's not like that. She's too honest for that. But all the same, he might go over there. He could come up with an excuse, right? Some question about planning their new compound.

That's if he can get the words out through his gritted teeth.

Before he has a chance to act, the situation spirals further away from him. Clarke and her doctor are stumbling towards the door, arms hopelessly intertwined, and she's leaning up against him like she wants to drape herself all over him.

Bellamy sees green. It's as simple as that. But not the pure green of jealousy – there's something more like _ownership_ at play, here. Because in his mind's eye he's seeing forests of green, a century and a world away, as they laughed at Unity Day and he cried at the supply depot. He's seeing the green flames on the beach where she hugged him after so long apart, the green of Trikru territory where he crashed the rover because he was too busy smiling at her.

Most of all he's seeing that one patch of green where she clung on, surviving, calling him every damn day to keep herself sane.

And when he looks at all that its obvious, really. She's his, every much as he's hers. They have too much history together for her to walk out of this party with some stranger.

That decided, Bellamy runs after them, as best as he can with his injured leg. He cuts across the dance floor, heads straight for the door. He follows the sound of Clarke's laughter, bitter that she's laughing with someone who's not him. Making her laugh is his job, damn it. That's been the deal since they first met, more or less. He rounds a corner and finds them there, Clarke pressed up against a wall, her new friend standing over her, kissing her hard.

Bellamy doesn't hesitate. In a lifetime of emotional impulsive choices, this is surely the most ill thought-out of the lot. Desperate, hurting, he simply seizes the doctor's shoulders and tugs him straight out of the way.

"Get off her." He bites out, harsh. That's about as many words as he can string together, right now.

The other man reels round, glaring, fists raised. "What are you doing? What – who are you?"

He frowns. He doesn't really have an answer to that question. He's Bellamy Blake, for all that's worth – a janitor and something of a failure. And he's nothing to Clarke, when all's said and done. He might be convinced they belong together, but that's hardly a useful description. It's not a convenient way to introduce himself, to say the least.

It doesn't matter. He's not here to answer questions. He's here to kiss Clarke – that's what he decides. Or perhaps it's what his arousal decides for him.

Either way, he steps forward and kisses her. He strides right into her personal space, presses close up against her body, and kisses her hard.

She tastes good. She tastes like punch, and like he expected her to – kind of like the scent that hangs about her hair. But she tastes all the sweeter for knowing he's kissing her right in front of this newcomer, kissing his taste right out of her mouth. He might not be able to _say_ who he is to Clarke, but he can show the world. _This_ is who he is – who they are, together.

At least, he thinks they are. Clarke pulls away after only a few seconds, struggling determinedly to ease back from his lips while she's pressed against the wall.

Crap. He didn't think of that, didn't think of how he wasn't exactly giving her much choice in the matter, accosting her like this. It's like his desire has completely overcome his capacity for coherent thought, like his jealousy has outstripped any shred of sense he had left. He freezes, panicked, and backs up a little.

Huh. That doctor's still standing there. This is awkward.

"What are you doing?" Clarke asks, tone taut, carefully controlled.

That's a very good question. "Kissing you." He answers with a hopeful smirk. She likes it when he makes her laugh, right?

No. Not today. Today that has her stepping right out of his arms, sidling closer to the doctor. Crap. Why can't he ever get anything right with Clarke? All these years in love with her, and he still cannot pull it together.

He takes a shaky breath. He knows this is his last chance. He's wasted too many chances before, and he's going to run out of luck one of these days – she's going to die for real, or decide there are limits to her forgiveness.

He has to get this right.

"Screwing up, again." He admits honestly. "Trying to tell you how I feel. Or – or show you." He's struggling for words, struggling for control, but he's proud of himself for getting that out.

"How you feel?" She asks, and she sounds nervous, he thinks.

He nods. He clenches his hands at his hips, tries for a proper explanation.

"We belong together. That's how I feel. You're mine, and I'm yours. I think it's been that way since that day you told me I wasn't a monster. And maybe I'm drunk and lonely and jealous but that doesn't change the fact that – that I've been in love with you for centuries."

She stands there staring it him for a second. She blinks carefully, frowning that Clarke frown, considering his words in silence for a precious heartbeat or two.

And then she nods once. She steps forward. And she reaches up to kiss him hungrily.

He laughs into her mouth from sheer shocked joy. He can't believe it. After all that time, it was really so simple? If he'd known all he had to do was find the courage to spill his heart to her, he likes to think he'd have tried it years ago.

No. Maybe she wasn't ready, then. And anyway, there's no sense in dwelling on the past when the present tastes so good.

He kisses her back eagerly, unclasps his hands from his hips to pull her closer against him. She tastes even better, now. There's something very sweet about knowing she wants this so desperately. He tangles a hand in her hair, splays the other at her waist. He doesn't want to let go of her ever again.

"How do you feel now?" Clarke whispers against his lips, teasing.

He kisses her while he considers his answer. Honestly, he feels _horny_. That's been something of a theme, this evening. But that doesn't feel like a terribly romantic or encouraging thing to say right this moment.

"So happy." He chooses in the end, because that's the truth, too.

"Me too." She sighs into his mouth. "We should – god – I love you."

He grins slightly. It makes the kiss messier, but he cannot help it. He never thought he'd hear Clarke incoherent with dazed passion, was beginning to lose hope he'd get to hear her say those three words to him at all. So he holds her a little tighter, keeps grinning into the kiss.

"Stop smiling." She murmurs, but it comes out garbled, because of course it does.

He smiles wider. "Can't help it."

She doesn't respond to that directly. Instead she jumps, taking him totally by surprise. She has her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck and somehow, she's still kissing him. He stumbles a bit, but manages to stay upright.

"Take me home." She begs. Or it might be an order. Whatever – the point is, she wants him to take her home, and he's certainly not about to say no to that one.

He starts walking, knowing instinctively that she means her place, when she says _home_. She wouldn't want to spend the night far away from Madi, after all – and he does very much intend to keep her busy all night. He spares a moment to notice that the doctor seems to have disappeared, but only a moment. He refuses to be distracted from Clarke any longer than that.

It's somehow magical and frustrating all at once, walking with Clarke wrapped around him like this. Her legs are gripped tight around his waist and he can feel his erection digging into the softness of her butt as strides towards her temporary home as quickly as he can. They don't manage to kiss cleanly or consistently on the journey, but Clarke's lips are still slanted over his more often than not, and it's driving him to distraction.

They make it through the door of her quarters, and even to her private room. That's just as well – Bellamy really doesn't want to run the risk of Madi interrupting them. He hopes the walls are soundproof, because he's in no mood to keep quiet.

But when they arrive, Clarke doesn't let go.

"Like this." She mutters, pressing a kiss to his neck, still clinging to him. "Want you to take me like this."

He hesitates. This wasn't what he had planned, all those times he permitted himself to fantasise about this moment. He thought he'd take his time with her, worship her body, tease her to an orgasm or two with his tongue before making love to her slowly.

He never imagined shoving her up against the wall with his hands clasped on her thighs.

Maybe he should have done, he thinks, cock throbbing in his pants. Because this is damn hot. And although he does want their first time to be special, he doesn't see any need to stress out about it. Clarke loves him, and he loves Clarke. That means there will be other occasions for taking his time, right?

And besides which, starting out like this would really suit the mood of the moment, he decides.

That resolved, he gets to work. It's fiddly and annoying, trying to tug her dress and panties out of the way while she's wrapped around him like this, but he perseveres. He moves their clothes aside just far enough to serve the purpose. And Clarke seems only too happy to help, pulling his jacket away and grasping at his back with eager hands under the fabric of his T shirt.

They both gasp when he eases inside of her. Then Clarke is breathing heavily into his mouth, shifting her hips in his hands to get comfortable.

"You OK?" He checks softly.

"I'm good. So good."

His hips are moving almost of their own accord, the moment she's confirmed she's doing OK. It's like her enthusiastic invitation has snapped the last of his fragile self control, and now he's powerless to do anything but move against her, faster and faster, as she bucks her hips against him as best as she can.

He'd better not drop her. That's about the only thought still standing in his head, besides _Clarke_.

"Hold me tighter." She gasps in his ear. "Want you to show me I'm _yours_."

He groans. And then he does as she asks, gripping at the soft flesh of her thighs. He can't believe he gets to do this, after all these years. Can't believe she's his in truth, rather than only in his silly hopeful heart.

"I'm yours." He tells her fervently, wanting her to know it cuts both ways. "I'm all yours. Always have been."

"Tighter." She begs again.

Another groan. Another tightening of his fists, nails digging into her tender skin. She moans, presses against him ever closer.

"Like that. Just like that." She confirms, breaking away from the kiss to press her forehead into his shoulder.

He grins, but probably it comes out as more of a grimace. Whatever – there's no one here to see and judge, as they're pressed up against the wall of Clarke's room. He just can't stop himself from smiling at the way he's sending Clarke almost incoherent with pleasure, reducing the woman he admires so much for her sense as well as her beauty to a blabbering, repetitive mess.

"Like that." She repeats for good measure. "There. I'm close."

He tightens his hands just a little more. Just to see if he can get another one of those delicious moans out of her, just to tip them both over the edge.

"Ah – yeah. Yeah. Yeah."

Sure enough, she falls apart then, clenching around him so hard he finds himself cursing out loud and spilling inside of her in turn.

So – yeah. It's been a success, he would say. As jealous frantic hookups with the love of his life go, this one is a clear winner.

It's when they are done that he starts to worry. He starts to fret that an awkward silence will fall, that their relationship will not be so comfortable as he hopes, going forward from here.

It turns out he has nothing to worry about.

"I love you. I meant it, when I said it earlier." Clarke whispers against his shoulder.

"I love you too." He echoes easily, pressing his forehead into the crown of her head. He's probably a bit sweaty, so he's probably making a sticky mess of her soft hair, but he's really far too happy to care, in this moment.

"I'm sorry. That's why I was so hurt, when you came back with Echo and you put Madi in danger. I just – I waited all that time for you. And then it wasn't how I imagined."

"I get that. I forgive you. And I'm so sorry for what I did to Madi."

She laughs. He doesn't see what's so funny, but he just holds her tight, shifts a little so he can slip his softening cock out of the way.

"I forgive you, too." She says when she has collected herself. "It seems so silly now – like it would have been so simple to figure it out if we'd only started out by telling each other how we felt."

"And maybe hooking up." He says lightly, catching onto her buoyant mood.

"That too." She unwinds her legs from around him, stands on her own two feet at last, but keeps hold of his hands all the while.

Huh. His arms are a little tired. And his leg is kind of aching. Funny how he just didn't really notice that until now – too caught up in having fun, he thinks cheerfully.

"Are you staying the night?" She asks, suddenly shy.

"I hope so." He says honestly.

She smiles softly, leads him to the bed. That seems like a yes, he decides, as he follows her without complaint.

They don't sleep much that night. Bellamy makes it a whole ten minutes before he can feel his arousal growing again. He tries so hard to repress it, tries to concentrate on the frankly lovely conversation he's having with Clarke about all the years they missed. But after about another quarter-hour, he's completely done for. He admits defeat, reaches over to kiss her soundly.

She kisses him back. And then somehow they're doing rather _more_ than kissing, and things escalate rapidly from there.

The third time it's Clarke who starts it. The fourth is Bellamy again. And after the fifth he stops keeping score, just embraces the fact that they're going to spend the whole night making up for lost time.

It's the strangest thing. By the early hours he's absolutely physically exhausted, and it's all he can do to drag himself to the foot of the bed and go down on Clarke until she's sighing his name softly. And yet he's still drowning in desire, it feels like.

Eventually they can go on no longer. They curl up together, naked and sticky and tired, but happy. And it's good to be happy, for a change.

Bellamy wakes up the following morning feeling seriously strange. He feels like he has a hangover, but he only drunk that one cup of punch last night. And he still feels a stirring of desire when he holds Clarke's naked body tight against his, but it's _normal_ desire. It's the same thing he's felt for Clarke for years – that she's his best friend, his favourite person in the universe, but that he'd also rather like to share a bed with her, too. It's not the out-of-control hunger he was feeling last night.

Huh. That's weird.

He still loves her. And he still wants to make love with her in a general sense. But he really doesn't want to do it right now – he's feeling thoroughly satiated, and deeply sore.

She stirs next to him, as if feeling him wake up. He likes that. He likes the idea that they could wake each other up every morning for the rest of their lives.

"You OK?" She asks sleepily.

"Yeah." He swallows. "You? I don't know how you're feeling about – about last night?"

She giggles softly. "I'm feeling like it was awesome but we should never do it again. I'm sore."

He laughs. "Yeah. When you say we should never do it again...?"

"I mean we should never do it _eight times_ in one night again. I think let's stick to three or so."

He gives a relieved and slightly shaky laugh. And then he gathers his courage.

"I feel a little... strange. Almost like a hangover? You tried the punch too, right?"

She nods against his chest. "Yeah. I know what you mean. And I was feeling... _off_ last night."

"Off?"

She hesitates. She swallows loudly. He gives her an encouraging squeeze, hopes to help her find her confidence and with it her voice.

"I was feeling really horny." She admits. "Like I just couldn't get enough of you. And I guess I thought that was just the alcohol and missing you all that time and loving you for so long. But now I'm wondering if there's something else going on here."

"I was feeling like that too." He agrees, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

"I mean, I mostly feel kind of like that when you're around." She teases.

He laughs easily, kisses her again. "Same here. But it was weird."

"Yeah. Hooking up with that Cillian suddenly seemed like a great idea."

Huh. Cillian. That's his name.

"I was so jealous." Bellamy admits.

Clarke pats him softly on the forearm. "I know you were. But that's done now, OK? That's the past. Let's go get Madi some breakfast and start work on the future."

He can agree to that. He pulls her in for a lingering morning kiss – just lingering enough to find that he is certainly still capable of feeling arousal this morning, thank you very much. But then he forces himself to let her go, rolls out of bed in search of some clothing.

Within minutes they are fully dressed and ready to face the day, walking down the hallway in search of Madi. Bellamy is a bit uncomfortable about this part – he has put Madi in danger before now, and yet this morning he is about to appear at her breakfast table as her mother's lover.

He needn't have worried, it turns out. Madi sees the pair of them arrive hand-in-hand and starts dancing excitedly around the kitchen.

"It worked!" She crows. "I knew it would work!"

Bellamy and Clarke share a look. There's something going on here, based on Madi's odd and exultant attitude.

It's Clarke who asks the question. "You knew _what_ would work, Madi?"

"The juice I put in your punch. There's this special flower here, Blythe Ann told me it makes people very loving. So I knew I had to use it to get you two to forgive each other and face your feelings and now you're here. And you're _holding hands_." She emphasises, delighted.

Bellamy laughs. Clarke sighs, but he figures her exasperation is more for show than out of genuine annoyance.

"I don't think it worked quite how you hoped." She says mildly. "When Blythe Ann said it made people _very loving_ – I don't think she meant what you thought she meant."

"What do you mean?" Madi asks, alarmed.

"We'll tell you when you're older." Bellamy offers, half joking, half deeply uncomfortable.

Clarke frowns at him and attempts to explain. "It seems like that flower makes people want to be very sexually active. I – uh – I almost hooked up with that doctor Cillian."

There's a heartbeat's pause. Bellamy looks at Clarke. Clarke looks at Madi. And then Madi breaks the tension with a loud and joyous laugh.

"That's brilliant! That's the best thing. I accidentally spiked your punch with sex juice? And what, you went after that doctor and Bellamy stormed over and carried you off? And I bet he said something really silly – _you're mine, Princess_." She jokes, in her deepest fake-Bellamy voice.

Another pause. More furtive glances. And then Clarke simply shrugs, breaking out into giggles.

"That's pretty much exactly what happened, Madi. You couldn't have planned it better." She admits, smiling widely and squeezing Bellamy's hand.

He likes that. He likes that she can smile widely, this morning – that's all he's ever wanted for her, to be able to wear an easy smile to greet the day.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Content note: drugged drinks.


End file.
